The fields growing
Many times in my life I have felt stagnant. Stuck really, being the flawed and inadequate me. Wreaking of the stench that wraps around me while unmoving towards anything that should matter in this world. But a moving heart knows what matters. It breaks away from the self consuming life and allows itself to be molded into serving. Such a heart knows that it needs to be open to losing itself, to die outright so that the real living can begin.
It seems such a slow process, this dying and living. There are these multiple seeds planted by the Sower, nestling down into the soil of our hearts. I suppose some grow more quickly than others, depending on where we take time to nurture. And then there are those that scatter too far from the healthy soil, falling upon unyielding ground.
It is the Spirit that comes along with his plow, turning it up and over in his quiet, gentle way. You would think that all of this heaving of dirt and stirring of hearts would make one cry in pain, but I have found that it merely stirs sad eyes until they spill over. A mourning, I think, of the time wasted not growing anything at all.
And soon the harvest will be called, a time that shall come for all of us. I grow hope that my fields might be plush with the fruit of the Spirit. I image a full crop waiting on that never tired farmer who comes to see all that his righteous right hand has tended to. May I be full of golden grains shooting high into a fading sky, waiting in expectancy for the reaping.
It seems such a slow process, this dying and living. There are these multiple seeds planted by the Sower, nestling down into the soil of our hearts. I suppose some grow more quickly than others, depending on where we take time to nurture. And then there are those that scatter too far from the healthy soil, falling upon unyielding ground.
It is the Spirit that comes along with his plow, turning it up and over in his quiet, gentle way. You would think that all of this heaving of dirt and stirring of hearts would make one cry in pain, but I have found that it merely stirs sad eyes until they spill over. A mourning, I think, of the time wasted not growing anything at all.
And soon the harvest will be called, a time that shall come for all of us. I grow hope that my fields might be plush with the fruit of the Spirit. I image a full crop waiting on that never tired farmer who comes to see all that his righteous right hand has tended to. May I be full of golden grains shooting high into a fading sky, waiting in expectancy for the reaping.
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